A Romantic Education
by Evenlodes Friend
Summary: In which Sherlock discovers romantic movies, candle light and dancing, and decides to try out his new knowledge on John.  Just a bit of gratuitous fluff.  Now complete. The much-promised smutty ending will follow as a separate story.
1. Chapter 1

A Romantic Education

Just a bit of fluffy fun, which may or may not have a couple more chapters depending on demand. If you fancy Sherlock by candle light, let me know. Snogging may or may not ensue, but that'll be as steamy as it will get. Apologies to the sensitive souls who might object to the gratuitous use of the word 'screw'. Constructive reviews gratefully received.

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><p>Part One: Cultural Clues<p>

It was only when Sherlock began to notice that his feelings for John had changed that he realised what a disadvantage he was at. High functioning sociopaths with no cultural awareness are somewhat challenged when it comes to the sociology and practise of romance. His solution, as always, was self-education. While this is usually a thorough and effective mode in which to operate, social interactions usually require more practical experiments than the theoretical sciences. First Sherlock had to research common behaviours, so he set out on a diligent data-gathering exercise. It proved a somewhat hit and miss process. Which is why John came home on the first evening from work to find Sherlock sitting on the sofa, hugging a cushion and sobbing over the end credits of David Lean's landmark romance, 'Brief Encounter'. Rachmaninov's second piano concerto swirled through the flat at full volume.

'He left her!' He whimpered and dabbed at his eyes with a tissue. 'I can't believe he left her! And she let him!'

'Well, they were both being unfaithful to their spouses, Sherlock,' John pointed out, putting the kettle on.

'But…. But….' And then he burst into more floods.

The next night, it was Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman in 'Casablanca'.

'John, I am confused.'

'Why?'

'She leaves him at the end, but this does not make me feel remotely distressed, unlike with Trevor Howard and Celia – what is her name?'

'Johnson. That's because it's different. Sherlock, why this sudden interest in old movies?'

'A research project. Why is it different?'

'Because it's for the war, so it's an acceptable sacrifice, where as with Brief Encounter, the sacrifice is for social reasons, which makes it noble and futile.'

Sherlock didn't look convinced.

The next evening, it was 'Love Actually'.

'I really don't understand this part, John,' Sherlock grumbled, rewinding the DVD to show him. 'Why are those people naked and simulating sex in public?'

'They're body doubles, Sherlock. For a film. It helps the director get the lights and camera angles right, so the actors don't have to stand around all the time, waiting. Besides, this scene is supposed to be funny.'

'Why?'

'Did you know that explaining a joke kills it stone dead?'

'Yes, but why?'

'It's irony. The romance comes out of the awkwardness of forced intimacy in public with a stranger. Usually, people get to know each other first, and are intimate in private. Here, it's the other way around.'

Sherlock thought about this. 'I don't know why such a pretty girl would be attracted to a pudding-faced individual like that,' he pronounced.

John looked a bit put out. 'She likes him because he's nice. And funny.'

'And funny is good?

'Funny is the best aphrodisiac.'

'I thought that was-'

'Don't go there, Sherlock, I really don't want to know.' John thought about it, though. 'You think she's pretty?'

'Yes. Don't you?'

'Yes. It's just I didn't think you went in for blondes.'

'I can change my mind, can't I?'

The next evening, it was 'Jane Eyre.'

'I thought it was movies?' John asked.

'Television can be quite useful too,' Sherlock pointed out. 'I'm surprised by the quality of this production. It must be recent.'

'No idea. Isn't that Maggie Smith's son?'

'I didn't know the Victorians wrote about sex,' Sherlock observed, ignoring the reference because he thought John was referring to a friend of his mother's.

'As I understand it, they wrote about little else.'

The next evening, it was 'Pride and Prejudice'.

'Now this I like,' Sherlock said, putting his feet up on the coffee table. He was sitting through all seven episodes, back to back. 'He seems an eminently sensible man.'

'You just wait,' John predicted and went upstairs to listen to the football on the radio. When he came downstairs again after the match, Sherlock was looking a little green around the gills.

'Something wrong?'

'Am I a pompous prig?'

'Yes.'

'Oh.'

'I'm sorry, did you want me to say something else? I can lie if you like.' He thought about it. 'You're a loveable pompous prig, if that helps?'

'Hardly.'

The next night, it was 'When Harry Met Sally.'

'You really are dragging them up, aren't you?' said John. 'When am I going to get the telly back?'

'Men and women can't be friends because sex always gets in the way,' Sherlock quoted, ignoring him. 'This seems to me to be a very generalised hypothesis. Does it have any basis in truth?'

'I don't know really. I do have female friends that I don't necessarily want to sleep with. But on the other hand, I suppose I'm a man, and I'd pretty much screw anything with a pulse if the opportunity presented itself.'

Sherlock frowned. '_Anything_ with a pulse? We are friends, and I have a pulse. Do you not wish to have sex with me?'

'It's not the same.'

'Why?'

'Because you are a man, Sherlock. I should think that would be obvious to someone as observant as you!'

'I had noticed, funnily enough.' The great detective scowled. 'So you are suggesting that my gender means that I should pretty much want to screw any woman regardless of her relationship to me, simply by virtue of her gender?'

'Sherlock, it's a romantic comedy! For God's sake! Get a sense of humour!'

'Even my mother?' Sherlock persisted.

'Oh, Jesus, read Freud!'

'Freud was a fantasist. So you wouldn't sleep with me?'

'No.'

'Oh.'

John stopped drinking his tea and stared at Sherlock. 'Oh, God, you're serious, aren't you? God, I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I didn't realise.'

Sherlock sighed. 'Neither did I until about a week ago,' he said.


	2. Chapter 2 On The Roof Part 1

On the Roof

Part One. In which there will appear silver stars and champagne, and an unexpected revelation about the Patron Saint of Consulting Detectives.

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><p>John came in through the front door and stripped his sweater straight off. It was a warm evening, and there had been too many people on the bus for him to stretch out and do it in the crush. He'd had to stand there, strap-hanging, and sweltering, until his stop came.<p>

'Sherlock?' No answer. No booming sweep of romantic theme music either, which meant that the television was finally his own again. He called again, becoming aware of a stiff draft coming from the top of the stair well.

As he put his foot on the bottom step, it rumpled something. There was a star, cut out of silver paper, under his shoe. He picked it up and examined it. Looked up. There was another, a couple of steps further up. And then another. He collected seventeen in all, and reached the upper landing. The window outside his bedroom, right at the top of the house, was open. There was a chair under it, the chair they used to climb out onto the roof when it was too warm to sleep inside, like tonight, or when Sherlock's experiments produced such toxic fumes that they had to escape by whatever means necessary. (Which was a rather more frequent state of affairs that John was entirely happy with, but that was one of the joys of living with a demented scientific genius.) There was another star on the seat of the chair, and yet another on the window sill. John got up on the chair rather gingerly, given the gaping chasm of the staircase at his back, and called through the window.

'Sherlock? Are you there?'

There was a clatter.

'Sherlock?' John eased himself up onto the windowsill, kneeling on the ledge, and peered out. It was just starting to get dark and he could see some lights, but nothing clearly.

'Just filling the ice bucket! Come on up!' The voice came from further over, behind the chimney stack.

John scrambled over the edge and out onto the roof. When he'd brushed the dust off his trousers, he looked around, and his breath caught in his throat.

The sun was setting, the city skyline ablaze. Encircled by a forest of flickering candles and fairy lights strung between the chimney pots, was a table and two chairs, angled to allow anyone sitting in them to enjoy the fabulous sunset to its fullest advantage. More candles shimmered on the white tablecloth, their light glinting in the cut crystal of tall champagne flutes, and shining on the flat pools of porcelain plates. On one side was another table, laid with luscious looking food, and a gramophone with a massive brass horn. Amidst all this, Sherlock was settling a champagne bottle into a silver ice bucket on a graceful stand. He was wearing a white shirt that reflected the candle light onto his skin and gave it an opalescent sheen. He looked up and, catching sight of John, his small eyes twinkled.

'Ah! There you are!'

'What are you doing?' John shuffled and fidgeted, suddenly finding himself nervous.

'I thought you'd like a nice supper.'

'Er, this looks a bit more than a nice supper.'

'What else does it look like?'

'A seduction supper.'

'Hardly. I just thought it would be nice to eat properly for once, enjoy the sunset and so on. It's been so hot lately, after all. Nice to have some fresh evening air.'

'We could have gone to Angelo's.'

'It's always so stuffy there,' Sherlock huffed. 'Anyway, Angelo did the catering, so you don't have to worry about me poisoning you with my cooking.'

'You bought food in?'

'Yes. Why not?'

'Er, expensive?'

'Poppycock!' Sherlock plucked the champagne out of the bucket. 'I'm not sure it's properly chilled, but you won't mind, will you? Sit down, sit down.'

John sat down, eyeing the bottle with some concern. 'You sure you can-'

Sherlock flopped a damask napkin over the cork and began to ease it carefully. 'No problems there. Mummy started making me open the champagne at Christmas when I was ten.'

There was a satisfying 'pock' sound as the cork came out, and Sherlock whipped the napkin away with a flourish and caught the froth in a sparkling flute. John was impressed.

'There, you see? Have faith!' He sat down and held a full glass out to John. When the doctor took it, their fingertips brushed slightly, and a tiny frisson passed down John's arm.

'You can hardly blame me,' John remarked, taking a sip. 'Pretty much everything you touch seems to explode half the time.'

'_Extremely_ sweeping generalisation, John. Just because the toaster-'

'So, seriously, what's all this in aid of?' John interrupted, not wanting to start on that particular argument again. 'What are we celebrating?'

Sherlock frowned. 'Do we have to celebrate something?'

'Sherlock, you are being extremely evasive. Besides, if you are going to burn the house down, it might be nice to be able to give the insurance company a reason why you had half the candle stock of the metropolitan area alight up here.'

'Watson, you have no soul.'

'I pay the insurance premiums, that's why.'

'Very pragmatic,' Sherlock agreed. 'Let us say we're celebrating St Botulinus's day.'

'Who?'

'I don't know, I just made him up.'

John laughed. 'St Botulinus? Patron saint of consulting detectives? I thought it was St Staphylococcus.'

'Oh, well, that's the commonly held notion, but it's a complete fallacy. Those of us in the trade, so to speak, know very well that St Staffy is just a red herring.'

They met each other's eye and started giggling.

Sherlock beamed and held out his glass. 'To St Botulinus!'

'Here, here!'

Their flutes chimed together and they drank. The champagne fizzed up John's nose, and he grimaced and wiped his face with the back of his hand.

'You uncouth article!' Sherlock grinned.

'Bubbles,' John said, in explanation. 'What's for tea? Smells good.'

'Oh, well, of course, it being St Botulinus's Feast, we have his favourite dishes. He was martyred with a surfeit of scallops, you know.'

'Not seared scallops with a sweet chilli sauce, by any chance?'

'Exactly.'

'Terrible way to go,' John said, shaking his head in mock sadness.

'Well, of course, the scallops were only the first step in St Bot's torment. After that, there was the cold steak and artichoke salad with balsamic dressing on a bed of potato and fennel fritters.'

'Dreadful, dreadful,' John agreed, watching greedily as his flatmate brought the food to the table.

'But I understand it was the strawberry and passionfruit parfait with raspberry créme glaze that was the final nail in his coffin, so to speak.'

'Well, it would be. Utterly barbaric if you ask me,' John said as sympathetically as he could before they both collapsed into snorts of hysteria.


	3. Chapter 3

On the Roof

Part 2: In which there is dancing and Frank Sinatra, and more silver stars.

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><p>'So what about the gramophone,' asked John. They had been sitting in the afterglow of their meal, enjoying the last wisps of navy cloud drifting across the deep peach sky.<p>

Sherlock got up and stretched, then groped about under the tablecloth and pulled out a box of old records. He crouched down to sort through them.

'One of Mycroft's little obsessions,' he said, pulling out a disk and examining it carefully. 'He collects 78s and old LPs.'

'Why am I not surprised?' John sat back in his chair and watched as his flatmate carefully positioned the vinyl on the turntable and vigorously cranked the handle. 'Actually, I _am_ surprised. I didn't think he ever had enough time off work to have a hobby.'

'One of many, I'm afraid,' Sherlock said, resting the needle delicately on the first groove. A crackle came out of the huge horn, and then the first tinkling notes of a piano.

John recognised it immediately. It was ancient, probably an original copy. Might be worth a fortune, knowing Mycroft. Charles Trenet, the famous French chansonniere, began to croon against the orchestra.

'_La mer  
>Qu'on voit danser le long des golfes clairs<br>A des reflets d'argent  
>La mer<br>Des reflets changeants  
>Sous la pluie<em>

Sherlock was suddenly in front of him, holding out his hand.

'Would Mademoiselle care to dance?'

'Come off it, Sherlock!'

'You really are not entering into the spirit of the research, John.'

'This is research now?'

'If I must seek a romantic partner other than you, then obviously I must practise my allure, and I have no one else to practise on. Having rejected me outright, the very least you could do is to help furnish me with the means to find alternative affection.'

John's gut twisted. He didn't want to think about the odd and extremely uncomfortable conversation they'd had the other day after 'When Harry met Sally.' He felt a complete heel, turning Sherlock down, but he didn't know what else to do. He just wasn't.. well…it wasn't on, that was all. But it didn't mean he didn't feel guilty. It was like kicking a puppy, after all. Sherlock was playing on his guilt, of course, and they both knew that perfectly well. Still.

He put his hand in Sherlock's and was immediately hauled to his feet. Sherlock took up a standard stance, one hand in the small of John's back, clasping the other at shoulder height. Holding his head high, he began to sweep John around the roof. It was all the doctor could do to keep up, never mind tread on his toes.

'Dear God, it's like dancing with a camel,' Sherlock grumbled.

'What do you expect? I've never done this kind of dancing before.'

'Ow! You weigh as much as a camel too!'

'If you want to stop-'

'No, no, not at all.'

'_Voyez  
>Pres des etangs<br>Ces grands roseaux mouilles  
>Voyez<br>Ces oiseaux blancs  
>Et ces maisons rouillees'<em>

Trenet crooned on against the rising crescendo of other voices and strings.

'Sherlock, where did you learn to dance like this?' John was incredibly impressed. It was like being whirled on a cloud.

'School.'

'Seriously?'

'Those were still the days when a gentleman was required to be able to waltz,' Sherlock sighed with a note of slight irritation in his voice. 'It was regarded as a crucial part of one's education. Can you imagine? Two dozen spotty adolescent boys paired up, stomping round a school hall trying hard not to touch each other more than absolutely necessary for fear of being branded a 'poof', and each fighting to lead, and the dancing master bellowing at the top of his lungs at us all? One of the worst humiliations the public school education system has to offer, I assure you. Luckily, I showed promise.'

'I'm not surprised.'

The detective glanced down at him, one eyebrow raised. 'Really?'

John could feel his cheeks suddenly burning. 'Well, you can be quite graceful when you like.'

'Thank you. I can also rumba, foxtrot, tango and two-step, should it be required.'

'What's this, then? What we are doing now?'

'No idea, just making it up as I go along,' he grinned.

Trenet was building to a yodelling climax, and Sherlock suddenly whirled John around with a flourish, lifted his hand above his head, and spun him, catching him expertly just as the final notes died away. The needle rasped into the inner groove.

'Right,' said John, gritting his teeth. 'If you're going to make me dance,_ I'm_ choosing the music.' He scrabbled about in the box, pulled a few discs out, just testing the water.

'Did you say this thing played LPs?'

'Yes, but you'll have to give it another crank and change the speed to thirty three and a third.'

John fiddled with the machine, remembering the settings from the radiola his grandparents kept in their living room when he was a kid. He gave it an extra energetic crank just to be sure.

A gentle tapping started after the initial ragged grind of the needle.

Tat tata tat tata ta tata tat

And then Ole' Blue Eyes started to croon against a flute and a strumming guitar.

'_Fly me to the moon_

_And let me swing upon the stars_

_Let me see what Spring is like_

_On Jupiter and Mars_

Sherlock's face lit up. 'Oh, the Count Basie version,' he beamed. 'Excellent choice.'

And then they were swinging. A mellow jive, almost. John was being rocked and swung and spun, and he loved it. They were laughing. At arms length and then held close, whirling around and sidling together, giggling.

_Fill my heart with song,  
>And let me sing forever more.<br>You are all I long for,  
>All I worship and adore.<em>

_In other words,_  
><em>Please be true.<em>  
><em>In other words,<em>  
><em>I love you.<em>

And then Sinatra rose to his climax and John was in Sherlock's arms, staring up into those quicksilver eyes. He realised that his right hand had slipped up from Sherlock's bicep to the back of his collar, and that Sherlock was clasping his left hand to his chest, so that the doctor could feel the thudding of his heart under those prominent ribs. His own heart was racing too, thundering in his throat. He could feel the heat from Sherlock's body, smell his physical scent, deep and rich and musky. He stared up into those changeful eyes, at once storm grey and cornflower blue and starling's wing green, and felt as if he was falling, plummeting into oblivion. And wanted it.

And then Sinatra burst into the first mawkish lines of 'My Way' and ruined it all.

Sherlock jumped and grimaced. 'Oh God! Hideous, saccharine arse water! I'm not listening to this,' he shouted, leaping across the roof and snatching up the needle with a scratch that felt like nails on a blackboard to John.

'Mycroft probably listens to that all the time,' John quipped, suddenly finding he was desperate to dispel any memory of the moment of blissful suspension they had just shared.

'God and all the saints help us if he does,' Sherlock groaned, flipping the record back into its paper sleeve. 'It's bad enough that he thinks he rules the world, without him believing he knows how to do it right _as well_!'

John laughed, and looked at the wreckage of their meal.

'Tea?' he asked, because it was his default setting.

'Marvellous,' Sherlock said, not looking up. He was down on his haunches, trying to slide the record back into the crammed box.

John sighed with relief, glad the dangerous moment had passed. He was just climbing back in through the window, one foot on the chair, when he heard Sherlock's call.

'John?'

'Mmm?' He looked up. The detective was standing in the middle of the pool of candle light, silhouetted against the darkening sky, looking for all the world like sculpted pearl. That's not right, John thought. No man has the right to be that beautiful.

Sherlock gave him a warm smile. 'Thank you.'

And that would have been that. Except that as John climbed off the chair at the top of the stairs, his shoe caught up a crumpled star, carefully hand cut out of silver paper. He picked it up and looked at it. It must have taken Sherlock ages to cut all these out, he realised. He picked his way down the stairs, picking up each snipped shape. They nestled in a rustling pile in the palm of his hand. He put the kettle on in the kitchen and gazed at them for a while. And then he went and tucked them safely at the bottom of his sock drawer, where he was sure Sherlock's casual disrespect for privacy would never take him.

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><p><em>NB Charles Trenet, 'La Mer', from Charles Trenet, 'Anthologie' (Available on iTunes)<em>

_Frank Sinatra with Count Basie and His Orchestra, 'Fly Me To The Moon (in Other Words)' by Bart Howard, Arr. Quincy Jones, 1964, from 'My Way: The Best of Frank Sinatra', Warner Music UK Ltd 1997._

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><p><em>A huge thank you to everyone who has commented and asked for more. Its been a great pleasure after writing loads of very dark stuff to be able to indulge my sloppy side. There's more to come, so stay tunes, folks!<br>_


	4. Chapter 4: Drunk in Charge of a Punt

**Drunk in Charge of a Punt (allegedly)**

_In which something that is definitely not champagne is found at the bottom of a Fortnum and Masons hamper, and the Master of Brasenose gets the blame._

(Please excuse gratuitous indulgence in location, but Oxford is one of the most Romantic cities in the world. Unfortunately the location of Folly Bridge meant our boys don't get to walk through the most romantic bits, but maybe they;ll get a chance later, if you darling readers demand a sequel...)

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><p>'Wakey, wakey! Rise and shine!' A considerable explosion called Sherlock burst through the bedroom door.<p>

John groaned. 'God, its 8am! It's my day off!'

'Up you get, Doctor! We have a train to catch!' Sherlock whipped the duvet off the bed, then instantly did a double take and dropped it back over him. Obviously he hadn't bargained for the fact that John might sleep naked, or that he might be prone to certain intimate morning phenomena. 'Come on, chop chop!' He bounced around the room, hardly missing a beat, flinging open the curtains.

John sat up, clutching the duvet around his middle to hide his modesty and rubbing his eyes. 'I was planning a lie in.'

'No time for that! We've got to be at Paddington by 9.20,' Sherlock said brightly. John groaned and flopped backwards.

'Come _on_, John! We can't keep the Master of Brasenose waiting!'

'Can I at least have a shower and some breakfast?'

'Only if you eat your breakfast in the shower.'

'Tell me why I put up with you again?' John groaned, hauling himself to the edge of the bed and dangling his naked legs over.

'Because I am brilliant?'

'Get out so I can get dressed.'

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><p>Half past ten, and Sherlock was striding up Oxford's George Street. John scrambled along behind, still bleary eyed and grumpy from his ignominious waking. When the tall, chiselled figure reached the junction at the top of the road, he stood in the midst of the traffic, stretched out his arms and took a big, deep breath.<p>

'Beautiful, isn't it?'

John looked up the Cornmarket. 'Could be any other high street in Britain,' he grumbled. 'Look, there's even a Boots.'

Sherlock waived his hand about. 'Yes, but look around you, John. Use your eyes, for once. This city is so beautiful, even Hitler didn't want it destroyed.'

'Have you ever thought that perhaps Hitler was not the finest judge of architectural finesse? Anyway, don't we have a meeting with the Master of Brasenose?'

'So you _have_ been paying attention?' Sherlock said, giving John a shrewd glance, and struck out through the crowds. The walk up from the station had not been exactly awe-inspiring, apart from the sparkling new façade of the Said Business School. There had been traffic lights and exhaust fumes and hot pavements and one way systems and, to be quite frank, John couldn't believe he had spent forty minutes on a train and wasn't still in London. This was little better, John thought, trudging past branches of WH Smith and Gap, and getting hotter by the minute.

'Impossible man,' he growled under his breath.

That was when he nearly got run over by a bus.

He had to admit that he was not expecting such a barrage of traffic at the foot of what was obviously a pedestrian precinct. Suddenly he in the midst of another main thoroughfare. The shock caused him to jump back and catch his breath, trying to adjust. He could see the black clad, blade-thin figure of his friend further up the road, striding along in the sun, in that distinctive way he had, with a slight swagger of his sloping shoulders. He had passed Christ Church Cathedral by the time John caught up, puffing and sweating in the mid-morning heat.

'Where are we going?' he gasped.

'Head of the River,' Sherlock said crisply.

'What, the Thames?'

'It's a pub.'

They diced with death crossing the road outside the gate of Christchurch fields.

'Is that where we are meeting him?'

'Who?'

'The Master of Brasenose. I mean, couldn't we just have got to Brasenose College itself?'

Sherlock gave him a withering look. 'Keep up, John.'

John stopped, gripped with outrage and suddenly deciding to go on strike. 'You brought me all this way to take me to a pub? On my day off?'

'Not just any pub,' Sherlock trilled and kept walking. 'Oh, and by the way, we are passing a police station on your right which was the original offices of Inspector Morse. Thought you'd like to know that.'

'How do _you_ know that?' John was getting seriously annoyed now. 'How do you even know who Inspector Morse is?'

'Was. I hear he's dead now. I can tell you where Lewis Carroll and JRR Tolkien lived too, if you have a fancy to know. I'm not a complete Philistine.'

The Head of the River turned out to be a very plush pub set down on the banks of the river below Folly Bridge. Tourists crowded the wharf on which it stood, enjoying a beer in the sunshine amongst a blaze of potted geraniums, or queuing up around the corner to hire boats. Sherlock pushed along the bank, receiving several snarled insults for his trouble, leaving John to shuffle through the crowd, apologising, in his wake. By the time he reached the boathouse, Sherlock was already climbing into a punt.

'Hey, there's a queue you know, mate!' Someone shouted. 'Wait your turn!'

'Sherlock, don't you think we'd-' John hesitated.

The boatman patted him on the back. He was a short, muscular man in a thin vest, with the stub of a cigarette fastened immovably to his lower lip.

'Compliments of the Master of Brasenose, Doctor,' he said. 'It's all kosher. Been booked days. In you get.'

John Hamish Watson generally did not do boats. He certainly didn't do punts, that much was certain. The boatman helped him in, and he stood uncertainly, jiggling, before Sherlock grabbed his jacket tails and jerked him roughly down into his seat.

'Got all you need, Sherlock?' the boatman grinned, untying the painter and giving the punt a shove off the landing stage.

'All present and correct, by the looks of it, Jimmy!' Sherlock wielded the punt pole like he meant business. 'You're a star!'

Jimmy the boatman gave them a stiff salute and went back to his queue of grumbling punters.

'Er, Sherlock?'

'Mmm?'

'What the hell are you doing?'

The detective was standing on the platform behind the seat, the end of the punt pole in one hand, its tip trailing in the water, and rolling up his sleeve with the other. He had already shed his habitual black jacket , which lay on the seat opposite John like a reproach. Enjoy yourself, it glared at him. The boat drifted in the stream.

'Actually, I'll rephrase that,' John said, feeling distinctly out of his depth. 'Do you know what you are doing?'

'Have faith,' Sherlock told him brightly, and dropped the pole into the water. And pushed.

Any minute now, John thought as he unsteadily exchanged seats so he could face Sherlock and see what was happening. Any minute now he's going to drop the pole in and push and we're going to part company, and he's going in the drink.

However, this did not appear to be happening.

He had this wonderful picture of Sherlock slithering down the pole into the river like a cartoon coyote, but it was clear as soon as he got himself settled and gathered his wits that Sherlock did actually know what he was doing. And was doing it with panache. There were plenty of other punts on the water, and there was plenty of flapping about as beginners got the hang of the method, or fell in, accompanied by mirthful shrieks. Sherlock navigated his way expertly through the tussle, much as he would on land. John had to admit he was impressed. Plus he looked the part, tall and slender and lithe, his long, capable hands gripping the pole with skill and dexterity. After a while John stopped worrying about being left adrift while Sherlock flopped about in the water, and started looking around himself.

Tree lined banks were dotted with couples, women with young children in push chairs, old people walking dogs in the sunshine. A girl lay on the bank in a revealing sun top and a floppy hat, reading a book through huge sunglasses. John admired the view.

The river was wide here, and a family of swans skulled up lazily to see what they were doing. John trailed his fingers in the water. The sun shone. Actually, it was rather nice. Down here, it was peaceful. As they shifted away from Folly Bridge, and the pub, the traffic noise receded, replaced by the lapping on the water on the banks as a leisure boat passed, leaving a broad wake, its motor humming. The punt bobbed, but Sherlock's knees must have had an incarnation as shock absorbers because he stayed uncannily steady on his platform, his features serene.

'You've done this before, haven't you?'

'Oh, plenty of times,' Sherlock smiled lazily. 'Misspent youth.'

'I thought you misspent your youth taking drugs.'

Sherlock frowned, but obviously decided not to rise to the bait. 'This was before the drugs.'

'So you came to Oxford.'

Sherlock didn't answer. Oh well, thought John, now I get it. 'They threw you out, didn't they?'

The detective snorted in derision and hauled on the pole. 'I had a lively discussion with the Master of my college about the inadequacy of the lab facilities.'

'Which presumably you blew up.'

'Another entirely sweeping generalisation,' Sherlock scowled. 'I found that UCL could offer me better opportunities.'

'Never mind. I mean, it's not as if you finished your degree anyway,' John needled.

'Paper qualifications are unnecessary,' Sherlock told him archly, and plunged the pole into the riverbed afresh. John admired the way the sinews in his forearms stood out as he pushed. From a purely medical perspective, of course, he reassured himself.

John lay back, closed his eyes and let the sun sink into his cheeks. 'Is that how you know the Master of Brasenose?'

'Don't know him at all.'

John opened his eyes. 'What?'

'He went to Eton with Mycroft,' Sherlock said blithely. The punt was definitely turning now. They were approaching a fork in the river, where a wooded glade surrounded a smaller tributary. It looked like Sherlock would be punting against the current, but he seemed determined to push on into quieter waters.

'I should have known Mycroft was at the back of all this. And I suppose they went to Oxford together?'

'Oh no.' Sherlock looked appalled. 'Mycroft went to Cambridge like all good spies.'

'Have you ever heard of Burgess and MacLean?'

'Don't be an idiot, Watson.'

They drifted under the trees. The sunlight was dappled here, soft and balmy.

'Where are we going?' John was starting to feel dreamy.

'A little place I know, near Parsons Pleasure.'

'What's that?' It sounded extremely suspicious to him, but he couldn't seem to summon up the energy to care. A coot plopped into the water and scooted into some reeds as they passed.

'Old bathing spot. You'll like it.'

'I'd better. You hauled me out of bed for this, remember?'

'And wasn't it worth all the trouble in the end?'

John sighed and let his eyelids flutter closed.

* * *

><p>Sherlock was sitting beside him, but it was the crackle of wrapping that had woken him. John sat up with a sigh. The punt was tied up to the bank under a weeping willow, the trailing branches of which formed a soft green curtain around them, shielding them from the river. The sunlight shimmered on the water, tracing oscillating fish-scale lights around them. The air was full of the rich, damp scent of loam and river weed. It was cool. Probably the only cool place on the river on this hot July day.<p>

Sherlock had pulled an old-fashioned wicker hamper from under the seat and was rooting through it.

'Nice nap?' he said, not looking up.

'Mmm. Picnic?'

Sherlock pulled out a bottle and examined it.

'Damn and blast it!' His explosion made John jump.

'What's wrong now?'

'Trust bloody academics! Ask him to order a decent champagne and you end up with a poxy – what is this – English sparkling wine!' He spat the words out in disgust.

'It's probably perfectly fine,' John sighed, feeling weary.

Sherlock huffed, produced two champagne flutes from the hamper and proceeded to ease out the cork with as much skill as he had done the other night on the roof. The wine had a scent of ozone and pears when John lifted it to his mouth. The bubbles stung his nose as he sipped. Sherlock was swilling a mouthful around, sucking it between his neat teeth and making obscene slushing noises.

'Well, I suppose it will have to do,' he relented.

'I like it,' John said brightly. 'What else does the Master approve as suitable picnic fare?'

There was a hand raised pork pie with a thickly rumpled crust. There were thin slices of cold ham and cold beef, a mixed salad in a plastic box, tubs of hand cut waldorf salad and coleslaw, a selection of cheeses, pickle, two types of pate, and a crusty French baton that shed little flakes of buttery wonder when John put it in his mouth. John piled his (porcelain) plate, while Sherlock assembled a rather ascetic version of a ploughmans, which he picked at elegantly.

'Mmmm, pfgood,' John told him.

Once they had eaten, they packed the plates and glasses away, and Sherlock pulled blankets and cushions from under the front seat.

'May as well have a doze,' he said.

'Sleep it off,' John agreed, his belly pleasantly full. They slumped down together into the bottom of the hull, but it was shaped such that they had to lie very slightly on their sides, facing one another. Unexpectedly, Sherlock extended his lower arm, and slipped it under John's neck, so that he lay with his head resting in the crook of the detective's elbow. It was surprisingly comfortable. He found himself gazing up once again into those changeful eyes.

'Tired,' he breathed.

Sherlock traced lazy circles on John's forehead with his middle fingertip.

'Sleep,' he whispered.

* * *

><p>The gentle lapping of water against the side of the boat. In the distance, a child laughing. Somewhere nearby, a coot burbling. A soft sigh, the whisper of breath against his cheek. He opened his eyes. Sherlock was watchful, his mercury eyes sharp, framed by long fringes of lashes. His body was long and warm against John's, sweetly scented and firm.<p>

'Nice?'

John nodded. Sherlock's fingers stroked through his hair.

'Champagne's gone to my head,' John breathed.

'S'not Champagne,' the finicky detective smiled. ''S'only champagne if it's made in the Champagne region of France. Otherwise, it's something else.'

'What?'

'God knows.'

He did feel a little dizzy, but he was not sure if it was the booze, the heat, or the growing realisation that he was lying in the arms of an extraordinary man, and more importantly, he couldn't think of anywhere he'd rather be. He realised he'd been deluding himself for months. All that dating, all that robust denial – not to Sherlock of course, except the other night, but to himself. Within himself. He had been ignoring the obvious truth.

'It's like you always say, if you consider the data, and exclude the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.' It was a bit of a non-sequitur, but he knew Sherlock would follow his train of thought and understand. Sure enough, he was rewarded with that angelic smile.

'So what do you think is happening here,' John whispered, shifting closer to the sinuous torso.

'Well,' Sherlock sighed, 'obviously I'm not exactly an expert in this field. I suspect your opinion might be a more accurate one.' He lolled back a little, flopping his free arm above his head and staring up at the curtain of silvery-green leaves over their heads.

John nuzzled into his shoulder. 'Hazard a guess, then.' He wanted to hear it from Sherlock even though he knew what the answer was.

'I _never_ guess.' Sherlock sounded too sleepy to be affronted.

'Liar. Of course you do.'

'Well, if I must. Based on the data available, which I would say is somewhat scanty and requires further elicitation, I would say-' He turned his head and looked down into John's eyes, his lips only a centimetre or two away, so that his words ghosted over John's skin.

'I would say that we are falling in love.'

'Yes,' John whispered. 'That's what I thought.' And closed the gap between them.

* * *

><p>Special thanks to everyone who has reviewed so constructively, and gave me so much fun, especially to <strong>XMillieX<strong> who made my day. I'm off on a writers retreat this weekend, so I may end up writing a slashy sequel to this, which will involve a doorway in Catte Street, a room at the Randolph, and a thunderstorm... But only if you want me to.


	5. Chapter 5: In the Fields

**In the Fields**

_In which Sherlock and John enjoy an ice cream, and John learns who is the most important man in Oxford._

* * *

><p>Sorry it has taken so long to get this one out – I've been working on something new and very angsty, but I thought I ought to get this sorted for you. There is going to be a further chapter after this, and then the final part, the slashy, smutty bit, will have to be published as a separate story in order to preserve the goodwill of those readers whose sensibilities will be offended. I'd prefer to keep the low rating on this one. Although this chapter does contain a bit of inuendo. And naughty thoughts about ice cream…. Your constructive comments always gratefully received.<p>

Oh, and for anyone who doesn't know, in England a wag is not just a footballer's wife, but also a smart alec who likes to make fun of other people.

* * *

><p>The air was getting heavy. It was mid afternoon and the petunias in the hanging baskets were starting to wilt. The crowds lounged under the parasols on the wharf outside the Head of the River pub, too oppressed by the heat to do anything much more than drink their lager and watch the world go by.<p>

Sherlock leapt off the punt, scooping up the painter, and tied up. Jimmy the boatman was stretched out in a sunlounger, a straw trilby pulled down over his brow. His cigarette stump had gone out. He lifted his head and waived an arm at the detective but apparently couldn't be bothered to get up. His sculpted biceps had an oily sheen of sweat on them.

'Alright, Sherlock?'

'Exemplary as always, Jimmy,' Sherlock called and then started helping the ungainly John out the boat. He wobbled a bit and missed his footing, fell heavily against the detective, who caught him expertly.

'Steady there,' he smiled. 'Too much champagne?'

'Bloody water,' John growled.

Sherlock was still holding him by his arms. He hauled him onto the pontoon, and into an embrace. An unexpected hug. Unexpected too, though just as welcome, was the kiss that came after.

'Sorry, couldn't help myself,' Sherlock whispered in his ear.

'Oi, poofs! Get a fucking room!' some wag shouted from the wharf. There was a ripple of embarrassed laughter.

Sherlock produced his most crocodilian grin. 'Good idea!' he called back. 'Care to join us?'

The wag's cronies hooted their approval at his humiliation. John's cheeks glowed as the detective led him away.

'Do you have to out me in front of the entire population of Oxford when I haven't even had time to get used to the idea myself?'

'They're so drunk that in ten minutes time they wouldn't be able to pick you out of a police line-up, so I shouldn't worry,' Sherlock told him, slipping his arm around his waist and guiding him towards the steps up to St Aldates, the route back into town.

John was irritated, but it was too hot to throw a tantrum, and besides, he was still glowing from Sherlock's languid kisses. How had this happened, he kept puzzling, while Sherlock strode along beside him, his jacket hanging casually from a single crooked finger over his shoulder. And how the hell does he manage to look so bloody stylish in this heat? John caught a glimpse of himself in a window as he passed. Sweat-dampened, crumpled and dishevelled, he truly looked like he'd spent the last two hours lying in the bottom of a boat, snogging. Which, of course, was exactly where he had been. So how did Sherlock manage to appear as if he had just walked out of a fridge?

'Fancy a stroll in the Fields?' Sherlock asked him as they passed the ugly monolith of the police station.

'Where?'

'Christchurch Fields. Behind the colleges. Lots of trees. Very shady in places.'

'Shade would be good,' John agreed. There was a queue of heavy traffic entering the city, pumping cloying exhaust fumes into the hot, dusty air. John just wanted to get away from it all, and maybe to find a tree to lie under. Maybe in Sherlock's arms. Maybe with a nice ice-cream.

They cut across the road, dancing between bonnets so hot they could have produced very presentable fried eggs, and skirted the shadows on the other side until they reached the gate into the Fields. The path was crisply gravelled in the way John expected of Oxford. It had the air of being well kept for tourists with capacious wallets. Wisteria and roses hung heavily on the gothic walls of the halls of residence. An ice cream van was parked up on the topiarised turf, and they bought 99s that the heat deconstructed in seconds, so they had to keep licking yellow ponds off their fists. But the cornets were cool and thirst-quenching, which was all that really mattered. They found shade under a gnarled oak, half its trunk split away and lying, still foliate, in the grass. Sherlock settled himself down with his back to the bark, his long legs outstretched, collar loosely open, for all the world a definitive Englishman On Holiday. John had to concentrate very hard in order not to stare as the detective slurped his way through his ice cream, sucked on the log of chocolate flake, lapped up the dripping custard that dribbled over the back of his hand. It was too much, John thought, watching those voluptuous lips at work. A man can only take so much.

Once he had finished his creamy treat, Sherlock sucked his long, sensitive fingers, and then settled down on his back, his head resting in John's lap.

Don't let him notice, _please_, God, don't let him notice, John thought. Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day, Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day. It didn't work.

'I think, to save any embarrassment, I shall avoid eating ice cream in public with you in future,' Sherlock smiled, his eyes shut.

Damn! He noticed! Bastard!

John tried to relax back against the tree and think of England. Or at least this little patch of it. From his vantage point, he had a good view of the University's skyline, that host of Dreaming Spires so often mythologised. He had to admit, it was very beautiful. You would have to be a complete philistine not to appreciate it. A line of jagged towers, gargoyle encrusted spires and ornate, barley sugar-twisted chimneys skirted the edge of the meadows, cricket pitches and football fields in front, lozenge-shaped panels of glass glittering in open windows behind. And behind the wall of honeyed stone, he was surprised to see the sky was developing a distinctly threatening tinge. Actually, he didn't know why he should be surprised really. Nearly four decades of exposure to British summers should have taught him that every day this hot is bound to conclude in thunderous downpours.

'Sherlock, I think it's going to rain,' he said.

Sherlock sighed. 'Doctor of Meteorology now, too, are we?'

'Look at the sky.'

The quicksilver eyes opened, long fringes of lashes fluttering. He looked. 'Hmmm.'

'What time is our train back, anyway?'

Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows and looked at the sky. Then at John. Then back at the sky.

'Well,' he said, as if he was calculating some complex statistic. And then he fixed John with that heart-stopping stare. John still didn't know how he did it. He'd done it at the pool, after Moriarty had reappeared. In fact, he'd done it in the taxi cab the night after they had first met, when John had said his deductions were brilliant instead of screaming and running in the opposite direction. He didn't know what it was about that look, but it was so appraising, so ineffably shrewd, that John felt like he was looking right through him and into his very soul. It was a look that said: how far are you willing to go with me, John?

'Okay, out with it,' he found himself saying, even though he was fixed and panting like a rabbit in headlights.

'Perhaps the wag was right,' Sherlock hazarded. 'Perhaps we _should_ get a room.'

John's heart writhed inside his ribs. Heat flushed into the base of his belly.

Oh God.

He swallowed loudly.

Sherlock allowed himself a small, knowing smile, but said nothing. Waiting for John's response. It all hinged on this moment. How far are we going to go with this? How far are _you_ willing to go?

John looked down at him. Looked at the long, pale neck, at the little triangle of skin exposed at its base, where his collar was pulled by the muscle of his shoulder as he rested back on his elbows. He looked at the long, lithe torso, the lines of muscles dimly suggested by the cotton, the hint of nipples under the white cloth, brown and suddenly erect. At that flat stomach, taut with effort of holding up that dark head. At the impossibly long legs, thigh muscles flexing under soft black linen. At the long, slender hands, fingers splayed out on the dusty ground beside the narrow waist. At the blades of those narrow hips, protruding through the thin cloth of trousers. And what lay between them.

How far are you willing to go with this, John Watson?

Blue and silver eyes stared up at him, dewy with need. Those erotic lips parted very slightly, anticipating.

How far am I willing to go? Come on, Sherlock. _All_ the way.

'Perhaps we should.' His voice came out about two octaves lower than usual, husky too. They stared at each other, realising they had crossed the Rubicon.

'Except,' John added, his brain suddenly kicking in over the hullaballoo his genitals were making. 'It's the height of tourist season. There probably isn't a room free in this whole town.'

'Aha,' Sherlock grinned. 'That maybe true for those persons not acquainted with the most important man in Oxford.'

He sat up.

'I doubt the Master of Brasenose is the most important-'

'The most important man in Oxford, my dear Watson, is definitely not an academic. He also happens to be a good friend of mine from a long way back.'

'And he is-?'

Sherlock had drawn his mobile phone from his pocket and started rapidly texting with his thumbs, frowning. 'The manager of the Randolph Hotel.'

'He's the most important man in town?'

'Have faith, John. Ask, and ye shall receive.'

'Even he can't do anything against sheer weight of numbers, Sherlock.'

'Well, if not, we can always jump on the train and shag each other senseless in the toilet cubicle on the way back to Paddington.'

John grimaced. 'I am not having our first time being a knee-trembler in a lavatory cubicle on a bloody train,' he said.

'Aww, John,' Sherlock cooed, and dabbed a kiss on the end of his nose. 'That's so sweet. Don't you like knee-tremblers?

'They have their place,' John said, blushing – he couldn't believe they were actually having this conversation. 'I just don't think it's appropriate for a first time in such a major relationship.' There. He had said it. His guts twisted in fear for a moment, fear that even having gone this far, Sherlock might panic, might back out, change his mind and decide his earlier declaration about the whole messiness of human relationships not being for him to be an absolute. John had no idea what he would do if that happened. He knew he was in too deep for such a rejection to go well.

'You're probably right,' Sherlock said after some thought, and John gasped with relief. 'Better make it something extra special.'

'Anyway, what do you know about knee-tremblers?'

Sherlock looked exasperated. 'I know it would suit you to think of me as a virgin, John, but really, I can hardly have reached the grand old age of 35 without being conversant in human sexual behaviour.'

'I never thought of you as a virgin,' John protested, realising he probably had. 'I just thought, well, you were probably asexual, that's all.'

'I never really trust anyone who claims to be asexual,' Sherlock sighed, looking back across the meadows to the sandy mass of the colleges, picked out against the lowering grey of the sky. 'Somehow, it never really rings true. And it is certainly not the same as celibacy.'

'Celibacy?'

'Yes, you have caused me to break a vow of thirteen years.'

'Good God, really? How the hell do you manage?'

'Since I started living with you and your gorgeous behind, John, it has been purgatory. Up until then, I hardly noticed.'

The phone beeped. Sherlock read the message and a grin of enormous smugness spread across his features.

'I take it we have a room?' John said.

'As I said, if you don't ask, you don't get.'

'Actually , you said-'

'Let's take in the sights on the way up there, shall we?'

* * *

><p>Please note, next chapter will contain gratuitous architectural porn and wet shirts.<p> 


	6. Chapter 6:  Caught in the Rain

A Romantic Education Ch 6

_In which our heroes take a walk and get caught in the rain, and Sherlock accidentally divulges a secret fear._

* * *

><p>Deepest Apologies to everyone that it has taken so long to get this next part out. You'll no doubt appreciate that it is really hard to write about a sweltering August day in the middle of a stormy December! I'm hoping to get us at least as far as the Randolph Hotel by the end of the week, but in the meantime, a bit of shameless self-publicity:<p>

I'm currently putting the finishing touches to my Christmas Offering to you all. Next week, you can enjoy daily episodes of my new story '**The Christmas Soldier'**, in which John spends his first Christmas with Sherlock's family. Expect lots of angst, familial revelations, passion, extravagant gifts and the opportunity to drool over John in uniform. I hope you'll like it.

Anyway, in the meantime, back to a hot August afternoon in Oxford….

* * *

><p>The air is getting thicker as they thread their way through the crowds on the path, heading towards the spires of Merton College. A group of boys are kicking a ball around on Merton Field, without much enthusiasm. Around them, the tourists and pleasure-seekers have started to pick up the scent of the coming storm. They are getting restless, nervy, packing up their picnics, hurrying their children away from the river, sneaking glances at the sky. The heat has become oppressive, and John wishes it would hurry up and rain because its hard enough work keeping up with Sherlock without having to battle against the elements as well.<p>

Sherlock lopes along, head high, pointing out items he thinks will be of interest to John, and niggling that John doesn't seem to be impressed by his knowledge.

'I'm sorry, but what I'd really like,' John says as they skirt down a lane between Merton's backs and Corpus Christi, 'Is a nice cold pint and a rest, not a personal guided tour of the city's historic sites.'

'And a shag.'

'Pint first,' John says.

'Of course,' Sherlock growls to himself. 'Get your priorities right, Sherlock.'

They emerge into the awe-inspiring shadow of Corpus Christi's pillared gates, cross the cobbles and sneak into the little snag of Magpie Lane, with its medieval beamed houses overhanging the street and cutting out the light.

There is little enough light left now. Even in this ancient rookery, John can see the bruising sky overhead. A distant rumble thrills the air. The city feels electric. John pauses for a moment and lays a palm on the plastered front wall of a house, looks up at the splitting oak beams protruding from the lower edge of its upper floors. Here the path is a mixture of cobbles and wide stone flags. His imagination takes flight. Victorian Oxford, or further back, he wonders. If lightning struck me now, I might be flung back centuries in time and never know it till I walked out the other end, and saw horses and carts instead of buses and lorries.

Sherlock's angular form is silhouetted against the entrance to the alley, picked out in midnight against the honied stone of the church on the opposite pavement. His hair is rippling in the breeze that has sprung up, and which is being funnelled down between the buildings. It hits John in the face, a blast of hot, moist air and diesel exhaust fumes. He glances up. The sky is turning lurid shades of purple and green-grey.

'I think it's going to come down,' he says.

'Well, come on then – don't dawdle!'

John scurries out of the passage, wondering if he knows anyone else who would even consider using the word 'dawdle'. And then Sherlock surprises him. As they reach the curb of the High, with its stream of impatient traffic, made all the more frenzied by the drop in barometric pressure, the skinny detective reaches out and grasps John's hand. Once glance at his face tells John he has no idea that he has done it – his attention is entirely focussed on the cars. It is an instinctive act of protection, something he has never done before. John instantly loses all his irritation, built up during the trudge across the Fields in the heat. Fondness rears up inside his chest: Sherlock is 'crossing' him, and it is sweet and beautiful, and entirely unconscious.

People are scurrying along the pavements now, made nervous by the strangeness of the light. Weird colours that bear no resemblance to reality are reflected in the shop windows, like the reflections of oil stains on a puddle, purple, green, mustard yellow, puce. The air has thickened enough to refract the light, and as they pass between the tower of the University church and Brasenose, John begins to think it is actually slowing his progress, resisting his sweating body.

The dome of the Radcliffe Camera rears up in front of them, like an enormous wedding cake, just as Sherlock holds out his palm.

'Rain?' he asks John.

And the heavens open.

John hasn't seen rain like it since the time he got stuck in the Monsoon coming down into Pakistan on a Red Cross protection mission. The raindrops are actually streaking down like silver rods. They hit the baking cobbles and immediately evaporate, and the square fills with delicate whisps of steam, strange and surreal in the green light.

Sherlock grabs his arm and drags him into the shelter of a doorway set into the monolithic wall of Brasenose College. The stone must be two feet thick here, and the oak door is wrinkled and dessicated with age. Its myriad layers of black paint that are flaking like psoriasis, and there are spiders' webs adhered to it. Sherlock doesn't seem to mind. He shrinks back from the downpour and draws John against him, peering up past the stone arch above his head. The light casts odd shadows on his features. John is tempted to think for a moment that he might even be afraid.

'What is it?' John whispers into his ear, nuzzling his cheek.

'I don't like getting wet,' Sherlock says primly.

'Bollocks,' John tells him because he must have seen Sherlock get soaked to the skin a dozen times in London, so he knows its just an excuse. Besides, he is hot and clammy and not inclined to waste any time getting to that nice cold beer he's been promised. So he launches himself out of Sherlock's arms and steps out into the street, pulling off his thin jacket.

He is instantly drenched. The icy bullets slap into his skull, making his teeth clench, drill into his shoulders and back, and it is utterly, utterly blissful after a day of sweating so much. He laughs and stretches out his arms, beginning to twirl.

'John, stop it! You're being ridiculous! Everybody's staring!'

Which, of course, is also total bollocks, because all anybody else is doing is trying to get to somewhere dry.

John closes his eyes and turns his face up to the clouds, receiving their bounty with unalloyed joy. He realises there is only one thing that could make this feel better than it does. So he reaches out for it.

Sherlock doesn't want to be dragged out of his dry little niche in the doorway, so John ends up having to bodily lift him. Now they are standing in the middle of the alley, arms laced around each other, John holding tight so Sherlock can't escape, and John is looking up at the taller man as the raindrops gather like pearls on his curls. He slides his hand into them, and pulls Sherlock's head down towards his.

'Summer rain on naked skin,' he breathes, charging his voice with as much desire as he can manage. 'Most romantic thing ever invented. Fact.' And kisses the world's only consulting detective so hard and deep that poor Sherlock's knees actually give way under him.

* * *

><p>'I don't like getting wet,' Sherlock snaps peevishly. The rain has stopped, and they have splashed along Brasenose Lane and out onto the Turl.<p>

'Rubbish,' John tells him. 'I've seen you wet through dozens of times. You're just being ridiculous.'

'And you look like an entrant in a wet t-shirt competition,' Sherlock says, glancing at him.

'Don't tell me you're sorry about that, because we both know you aren't.' John's linen shirt is sticking to him like cling-film, and leaves nothing to the imagination. He catches sight of himself in a jewellers window and is arrested by the image. Where before he looked sweaty and exhausted, now he looks muscular and intrepid. He rather likes that image of himself, and puffs out his chest a bit before he has to scurry on to keep up with his companion.

'Vanity is not an attractive trait,' Sherlock remarks.

'That's rich, coming from you!' Then he smirks, catching the appreciative look that Sherlock is trying to hide. 'Besides, you love having me wet like this. Can't keep your eyes off me.'

'Tart,' Sherlock says, fondly.

'Oh, yes.'

As they turn out onto Broad Street, lightning crackles over the rooftops of Trinity, and for an almost imperceptible second, Sherlock flinches. No one but John, knowing the man as he does, would have seen it, but it is there nevertheless, plain as day.

John stops in his tracks. 'Are you afraid of lightning?'

When Sherlock fails to answer, John runs after him and grabs his arm to stop him, pulling him aside as a troop of rather bedraggled Chinese tourist trail past with a guide at their head, shouting at the top of her voice like cheese wire through a loud-speaker.

'Are you?'

Sherlock doesn't want to meet his eye. 'I don't like thunder storms, that's all.'

'But you know it's only-'

'I got hit by lightning at school, alright? Happy now?'

'Jesus, really?'

'It hurt,' Sherlock says, pouting at his feet. 'They made us play cricket. I was standing in the outfield, minding my own business, and Bang! I've never liked cricket, but that was the final straw!'

* * *

><p>(Incidentally, sorry I have dropped into the present tense in this chapter. I don't know quite how it happened, and I hope it doesn't spoil things for those who are reading straight through. Anyway, more soon, I promise.)<p> 


	7. Chapter 7:  The Randolph Hotel

A Romantic Education Ch 7 - The Randolph

Well, here we are at last, dear readers, but you won't find any smut in this last chapter, because as I said, I'm saving that for a separate story, so that this one can keep its low rating. (Smut will follow, I promise, but for the next week, I shall be presenting you with **A Christmas Soldier**, my seasonal extravaganza, so it will be a little while, I'm afraid.) In the meantime, I hope you won't be disappointed when it comes to the crunch.

Incidentally I own neither Sherlock, nor 'When Harry Met Sally', which belongs to the incomparable Nora Ephron (We're not worthy!).

_Apologies are due_: When I read this out to my husband last night, he put a right old spanner in the works. 'You do realise,' he pointed out, 'that Sherlock Holmes was a Cambridge man?' (This coming from a man born and brought up in Oxford, so with the resultant axe to grind.) 'Oh, pants!' I said, more or less. So if there are any purists out there, all I can say is Mea Maxima Culpa, I just made stuff up and didn't do my holmeswork well enough. Sorry. On the other hand, you might enjoy looking up The Randolph's website on Google. The luxurious Presidential suite really does have a library, I promise.

* * *

><p>Andy Cripps is a small man in a very big suit. Silver grey wool hangs off him in folds. He looks as if he has unexpectedly been turned into a mouse and, left inside a grown man's clothing, still hasn't worked out the fact. He greets Sherlock with a glow of delight in the palatial reception of the Randolph Hotel, which is clearly his own personal fiefdom. Hugs are exchanged. John is bemused. Everyone they have met in Oxford has greeted Sherlock with obvious pleasure. It's not the usual reaction to the difficult detective, and John's only conclusion is that he became irascible and rude after he left the Dreaming Spires. In which case, what sparked such a total transformation?<p>

Answer? Drugs. Must have been. Cocaine can change the personality radically in use, why not in the longer term? John wonders what it would have been like to meet the younger, more adorable Sherlock. And suddenly finds himself gripped with an odd unease.

'So, business or pleasure?' Andy asks, sotto voce, as he goes behind the reception desk to get the checking in forms. He is clearly thrilled by the prospect of Sherlock bringing intrigue into his hotel.

'Business,' Sherlock says, rather hurriedly. 'This is my colleague. Dr John Watson.' He leans in towards his old friend. 'We're working on uncovering a big fraud,' he breathes.

'Mmmmm!' Cripps grins. 'Whose tab is it going on?'

'Put it on Mycroft's,' Sherlock says. 'Government is going to benefit anyway. We need a good view of the Museum, I hope that's possible?'

'Art fraud? Oh, yes, I've got you in the Presidential suite, right at the front. The view is excellent, you can see all the comings and goings from there.' He lays out the papers for Sherlock to sign. 'Do you want the usual equipment sent up?'

'Oh, could you? We left in rather a hurry, following the suspect. No time to bring any luggage.'

'And dry clothes? I see you got caught in the storm.'

With dramatic irony, thunder rolls around the vast building.

'I don't think we've had the last of it yet,' John says, glancing up at the sky through the window. It looks like the storm clouds are circling the city instead of scudding over it.

Sherlock huffs. 'Damned weather. Don't worry about the clothes, but toothbrushes would be useful, if you could?'

'Let me show you up,' Cripps says, and mutters something confidentially to the young woman who is sitting beside him. She immediately picks up the phone and begins to dial.

As they climb the staircase behind the skinny little manager, John tugs at Sherlock's arm.

'Equipment?' He whispers.

'For surveillance. Cameras, night sights, that kind of thing. Andy has an arrangement with a local outfit, very convenient.'

John is surprised that guests at the Randolph would require digital cameras and long lenses at short notice, but on the other hand, living with Sherlock has taught him to expect the unexpected.

Andy shrugs his bony shoulders under his capacious jacket as he wields the key card, undoubtedly a habit of which he is entirely unaware. Maybe he is used to wrestling with uncooperative locks. Then the door opens and a sumptuous vista is presented to them.

There is brocade everywhere. Curtains and accent cushions and vast, luxurious sofas of it. There is polished walnut furniture and every gadget imaginable. The main room, a lounge, is dual aspect, two enormous windows looking down onto the Classical atrium of the Ashmoleian Museum, with its white sandstone columns and the flags of all nations flapping damply in the breeze. The bedroom with its half tester bed looks across St Giles. The rooms are gloomy from the dark weather outside. Lightening flickers over the Martyrs memorial, taking the tourists' pictures. On the pavement outside, a dog suddenly starts to bark frantically, ears maddened by the sudden drop in barometric pressure as the storm swirls overhead. Sherlock stalks through the rooms, paces the private library, long fingers walking over the spines of shelved books.

'I'll have some extra toiletries sent up with the camera kit when it arrives. Should be about an hour in this traffic.' Cripps glances down into Beaumont Street, which is blocked solid. 'Rain makes everyone drive like idiots,' he says wearily. 'Everything you need?'

'Excellent, my dear Cripps. We can't thank you enough, can we, Watson?'

'Er, no. Makes our job so much easier.' John is a bit ruffled at being suddenly called upon to speak.

'Well, settle in. Anything else you need, just pick up the blower. I'll send Mitch up with the kit as soon as it comes.'

'You are a star,' Sherlock says, pulling a notebook and pen out of his breast pocket as if he means business.

'I'll leave you to get on then.'

Sherlock is already gazing out at the museum, apparently lost in his task. Cripps raises his eyebrows at John with a wry grin, and lets himself out. And suddenly the room is filled with an awkward silence that roars against the street noise rising through the open windows.

'Sherlock, there's a library,' John says, just to break the tension. 'Do we really need a library? And on Mycroft's tab, for God's sake?'

'Do I sense cold feet, by any chance?' He is still making notes. What could he possibly be writing down, John wonders, considering they were here on a pleasure trip in the first place.

The doctor goes to the other window, and pulls back the net to peer down at the group of school children crowding in the entrance to the museum shop. The heavy atmosphere of the storm compresses and sharpens their giggles and shouts, so that they sound so close they could be in the suite too. The light has taken on a purplish, eerie glaze.

He becomes aware of Sherlock behind him, the heat from his body, the scent of his flesh. Long arms slip around John's chest, and a rain-cooled cheek is pressed to the back of his neck.

'Darling?' He whispers. 'I should get you out of these damp clothes.'

It is strange. Surreal. The room fills with shadows. Then another flash of light, unearthly, and a crackle directly overhead, so close it makes them both flinch. The thunder is almost simultaneous. The sashes rattle.

John's limbs suddenly feel heavy and he isn't sure if it is the weather, all that fizzy wine at lunchtime, or the doubts that are crowding into the suite with them.

'I need to be sure,' he breathes, even though he can't help but rest his head back against Sherlock's shoulder as the taller man presses kisses to his skin. 'I know you. I know what you're like. I need to be sure this isn't just a game for you.'

'You know it isn't,' Sherlock murmurs, his deep voice muffled as he presses his face into the back of John's hair. It is electrifying and terrifying at the same time. 'You were fine until we got here. What's changed?'

'I don't know,' John tells him, twisting in his arms so he can look up into those quicksilver eyes. Eyes that have changed from pale mercury to dark pewter, and he has no idea whether it's because of emotion or the effect of this weird, fae light. 'I walked in that door and…'

He can't seem to finish the sentence, can't bring himself to say what is in his heart. So Sherlock looks deep into his eyes and says it for him.

'You don't trust me. You don't believe I love you.'

'I've seen what you're capable of, remember? I've seen you manipulate and hoodwink people more times than I can remember. I've seen all the crocodile tears and the protestations of innocence. You can hardly blame me.

'Sherlock, this is a big thing for me. Huge. It changes everything I believe about myself. I can't just fall into bed with you unless I'm sure you aren't going to decide you're bored with me the moment I wake up. And I don't want to mess up what we already have for a shag, no matter how luxurious the setting.'

'Fine,' Sherlock says, stepping back in exasperation. 'Great. We fall at the last hurdle.'

'I just need to understand.'

'I see how it is. This is the traditional last protestation of the virgin. You cling onto your honour. You have doubts, naturally, and your doubts have brought us to the moment when I'm supposed to fall down on my knees and proclaim my undying love for you.'

John groans. 'This is my life, Sherlock! This isn't a Doris Day movie!'

'Really? I have to admit that sometimes in the last three weeks I have wondered.' He makes as if to move, but John grabs his shoulder.

'Don't even think about kneeling down!'

'Very well. But I _will_ plead with you – the style of Billy Crystal, I think, since I suspect that realism is the only way to persuade you.'

The detective draws himself up to his full, towering height, and draws in a deep breath. John braces himself for the onslaught.

'I love the fact that you insist on wearing those hideous jumpers as if they are the definition of style,' he says. 'I love that you think tea and toast are major food groups. I love that you can't cook to save your life but are completely oblivious to the fact-'

'Oh, now, hang on a minute-'

Sherlock ploughs on regardless. 'I'm going to buy you a personal masterclass with Nigella for Christmas because it's getting too much, really it is.' He catches his breath and refocuses. 'I love that you insist you have the moral high ground because you trained as a healer, and you then went on to join the army and wreak extreme violence on the world with a clear conscience. I love that you have the morals of an alley cat when it comes to women, to the extent that you started working on seducing your new boss on your first day at work, yet express scruples about sleeping with me!'

'That's hardly fair! I mean, I didn't know we-'

'I love that your mouth drops open and you drool when you fall asleep on the sofa. I love that you can smell a kebab shop from two miles away, yet constantly worry about your waistline. I love that you insist on closing the lid of the lavatory when you flush which is contrary to every patriarchal law of every society since the invention of the water closet. I love that when you tell me I'm being insufferable, you say it like it's a term of endearment. And I love that you hate it when people call you cute. Which you are, by the way, insupportably so.'

'I'm _not_ cute,' John growls. 'Cute is a word women use about short men as an excuse for not sleeping with them. It's patronising.'

'Adorable, then,' Sherlock grins, slipping his hands around John's waist. John realises Sherlock knows he has won, but he won't give up just yet, so he grunts, refusing to be mollified.

'I'm not sure that isn't worse. Anyway, I still disagree about the cooking.'

'Of course you do, that's the whole point.'

'Well, if you showed some enthusiasm for eating what I cook-'

'I'll buy you a cook book.'

'I'd rather have a day in the kitchen with Nigella.'

'You see what I mean about the alley cat thing?' Sherlock says. 'Anyway, may I continue? I love the fact that your feet smell-'

'They _do not_!'

'They do! I love the fact that you have the perfect sense to question everything I say, for example the fact that your feet smell, even if it is against all the evidence to the contrary. Which it is. They_ do_ smell, John. Honestly. You stink worse than a pack of ferrets sometimes.'

John huffs. 'If I do, then it's glandular.'

Sherlock laughs.

'I love the fact that you love me against your every conviction and instinct for survival. I love the fact that you argue with me all the time, even when you are in my arms and haven't the slightest chance, or even intention, of escaping my fiendish plan to seduce you. I love the fact that you understand how easily bored I am, but can't see that you are infinitely fascinating to me in every way. And I love that you are ridiculously gorgeous and fabulously sexy, which is against every aesthetic rule ever invented, and yet is still empirical fact.'

Then he stops and eyes the doctor in his arms shrewdly.

'Now, this is the bit where you cry 'oh Mr Darcy, I've waited so long for you to confess your love!' and fall into my arms in reckless passion.'

'Not gonna happen.' John is milking the whole grumpy thing. He's still not convinced, but he knows he doesn't have a chance against Sherlock's logic, and besides, he's allowed himself to be talked into taking the risk now. 'I'm not Elizabeth Bennett,' he says.

Sherlock pulls him close, drops his head till its level with John's, and grins pointedly until the doctor can't help but grin back.

'It's a shame, you know, because you'd look really cute in ringlets.'

John growls, but his heart isn't really in it.

And after all that talking, when the kiss finally comes, it is sweeter and more romantic than anything Jane Austen could have dreamt up.

* * *

><p>Mitch, Andy Cripp's personal assistant, arrives about an hour later. He knocks on the door of the suite, but gets no answer, so he lets himself in. The lounge is silent and empty. He shuts the windows to stop the rain getting in. It's throwing it down now, pattering on the sills and soaking the nets, but the worst of the storm is over and the thunder is rumbling softly in the distance. The sky is even starting to brighten.<p>

He puts the box of surveillance equipment on the coffee table, and settles the carrier bag of toiletries next to it. He picked them up from the Tesco Express next door to the hotel, and he's just hoping he's picked the kind of toothpaste they'll like. He notices the bedroom door is firmly shut, but he doesn't question it. After all, Mr Cripps has told him, on the quiet, that these new guests are with MI5, so it figures they'd want privacy while they're doing their spying stuff. It's only when he is about to leave that he hears it. The murmur of a man's voice from behind the bedroom door. The voice has a slightly unexpected timbre to it. He hesitates, his hand on the door handle. He shouldn't listen – it might be national secrets. No, there it is again, no mistaking it this time, or the tone. And if these two are really spies then Mitch is pretty sure that whole reputation James Bond has is just about as far from the truth as it is possible to be, no matter what Mr Cripps says. Because he is sure he heard that man's voice moan, in a tone dripping with desire:

'Oh, God, yes, Sherlock, _yes_…'

* * *

><p>AN I promise to give you what goes on behind that door in the New Year. In the meantime, Happy Christmas everyone. (Oh, and aren't we doing something together on New Year's day….?)


End file.
